Anaxagoras was about to speak, when a deep but gentle voice, from some invisible person near them, said:
"The unchangeable principles of Truth act upon the soul like the sun upon the eye, when it turneth to him. But the one principle, better than intellect, from which all things flow, and to which all things tend, is Good. As the sun not only makes objects visible, but is the cause of their generation, nourishment, and increase, so the Good, through Truth, imparts being, and the power of being known, to every object of knowledge. For this cause, the Pythagoreans greet the sun with music and with reverence."
The listeners looked at each other in surprise, and Philothea was the first to say, "It is the voice of Plato!"
"Even so, my friends," replied the philosopher, smiling, as he stood before them.
The old man, in the sudden joy of his heart, attempted to rise and embrace him; but weakness prevented. The tears started to his eyes, as he said, "Welcome, most welcome, son of Aristo. You see that I am fast going where we hope the spirit is to learn its own mysteries."
Plato, affected at the obvious change in his aged friend, silently grasped his hand, and turned to answer the salutation of Philothea. She too had changed; but she had never been more lovely. The colour on her cheek, which had always been delicate as the reflected hue of a rose, had become paler by frequent watchings; but her large dark eyes were more soft and serious, and her whole countenance beamed with the bright stillness of a spirit receiving the gift of prophecy.
The skies were serene; the music of reeds came upon the ear, softened by distance; while the snowy fleece of sheep and lambs formed a beautiful contrast with the rich verdure of the landscape.
"All things around you are tranquil," said Plato; "and thus I ever found it, even in corrupted Athens. Not the stillness of souls that sleep, but the quiet of life drawn from deep fountains."
"How did you find our peaceful retreat?" inquired Philothea. "Did none guide you?"
"Euago of Lampsacus told me what course to pursue," he replied; "and not far distant I again asked of a shepherd boy—well knowing that all the children would find out Anaxagoras as readily as bees are guided to the flowers. As I approached nearer I saw at every step new tokens of my friends. The clepsydra, in the little brook, dropping its pebbles to mark the hours; the arytæna placed on the rock for thirsty travellers; the door loaded with garlands, placed there by glad-hearted boys; the tablet covered with mathematical lines, lying on the wooden bench, sheltered by grape-vines trained in the Athenian fashion, with a distaff among the foliage; all these spoke to me of souls that unite the wisdom of age with the innocence of childhood."